


in these old knots

by carnival_papers



Series: deep in the heart of texas [1]
Category: Les Misérables (Dallas 2014)
Genre: Desperation, M/M, Masturbation, Porn Watching, Unrequited, hot buttered cop porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-09
Updated: 2015-08-09
Packaged: 2018-04-13 17:27:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,222
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4530708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/carnival_papers/pseuds/carnival_papers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Hung Prisoner Fucks Slutty Cop!” <i>Worth a shot</i>, he figured, and clicked.</p>
            </blockquote>





	in these old knots

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).



> I can't believe I wrote this.
> 
> This fits probably roughly a year before the second fic in this series. You can read that before or after this or not at all, it doesn't really matter. All you need to know is that this is set in Dallas, and you really don't even need to know that. Oh, and this is post-Seine, or the equivalent of that in this universe. Now you're good to go.
> 
> Title from [this song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oUecKdbB5fE).

He guesses it started innocently enough. People have fetishes, that isn’t unusual—in all his years on the force, God knows he’s seen some weird shit. All things considered, this is tame, and it makes sense, kind of. There’s probably something Freudian about wanting to see himself represented in whatever he’s jerking off to. It makes sense, and there’s nothing wrong with it, and it’s all fine.

It’s become an obsession, a compulsion. There’s a routine to it, almost like a ritual: come home, hang up his coat, pull up the video, jerk off, spend the rest of the night feeling guilty about it. It’s not much, and it probably isn’t healthy, but it works for him. And the thing is, the really fucked up thing about it, is that nothing else works for him anymore. He’s tried— _God_ , has he tried—but everything else is unsatisfying.

Not that this is satisfying. It isn’t. And he knows _why_ it isn’t satisfying, but he sure as hell isn’t going to admit that to himself or to anyone else. But this is as close to satisfying as he can get right now, so it has to do.

Tonight is normal. The need is there, it’s been there all day, eating at him since he got to the police station this morning. His uniform feels too tight; it clings to him, all sweaty. It’s too hot for September, and the news has been saying there’s a cold front coming in, that soon this heat is going to break. He doesn’t believe it. Still, he wears the stupid leather coat anyway—it makes him look imposing, and that’s how cops have to look now, like the Terminator or something, because no one takes them seriously otherwise. Everything’s been different since the riots.

He thinks, maybe, that’s where this whole mess started. The riots. They turned Dallas upside down, and so maybe they’re to blame for whatever flipped this perverted switch in his head. But he knows that isn’t really true, either, and he doesn’t want to think about what the truth is.

The walk from the DART station to his apartment is too long. It’s a Friday night and the place is swarming with tourists—Dealey Plaza is doubly attractive now that JFK isn’t the only person who’s died there. The riots were go-to B-roll footage on CNN for weeks. White kids smashing windows, some activist from Massachusetts spray-painting _Freedom Now!_ on the wall of the schoolbook depository. And now that there’s no more danger, people want to see the aftermath. He pushes through the crowd of people and they’re all too close. These days, he has a hair trigger, and he’s thankful for the coat. He keeps a palm over his sidearm, his other fist clenched over his nametag. Shoulders through. Grits his teeth. Ignores the way the people brush against him.

How long has it been since someone touched him? On the nights when his hand isn’t enough, he goes to the Design District, loses himself in the thump of bad music and overpriced drinks, and watches. He’s learned how this works, how to sidle up to a guy at a bar and suggest they make their way to the bathroom. He’s tall, but he bends for the swimmer’s build, the square shoulders, the buzz-cut. He doesn’t bother with their names, and if they ask his, he comes up with something on the spot—Dean or Alex or John—that they can yell when they come. He knows to stay quiet, grip the wall or the back of the toilet, and not think of what they’re missing. Why even this isn’t enough for him.

He walks past the Hooters, the House of Blues—more people, more noise—and wonders distantly if he should eat. But there’s the need burning a hole in him, that desperation. Everything else is second to that. He swipes into his apartment building, takes the elevator all the way up, thanks God that no one comes into the elevator with him. He jabs his finger against the floor button what feels like a hundred times even though he knows it won’t make the thing go any faster. Taps his foot, waits for the ding of the elevator.

The doors finally open and then he’s down the hall in a second. One of his neighbors is stepping out of her apartment in yoga pants and a sports bra. She smiles at him, says his name, but he keeps his head down and blows past her. They went out for coffee, once, before he realized it was a date. It had been nice—she had been nice—and she brought him back up here, unbuttoned his coat, kissed him. Asked him how far he wanted it to go. He remembers stumbling out of her apartment into the hall, leaving her alone in her bed while he fumbled with his keys. He had felt nothing for her, but he had briefly entertained the idea of sleeping with her just to try it, just to see if it would fix him. But he’s been other people’s experiment before, so he’d settled for the video and the warmth of his own palm.

He hangs up his coat and tries to tell himself that this is all normal. People masturbate. They don’t feel guilty about it, they don’t waste nights trying to convince themselves that it’s all okay. He blames his dad, he blames Huntsville, he blames the church, he blames himself. But no matter where he places the blame, he still has to do it. He ought to be used to that by now.

His laptop is still open on the bed from last night. He didn’t sleep much—he rarely does, nowadays—and he’d watched some documentary on the prison system until his alarm had gone off. They’d gotten facts wrong, spouted the same bullshit about the school-to-prison pipeline. He was too angry to even try to sleep after that. It makes him angry now, just thinking about it, and he shoves his gun and flashlight into the top drawer of his nightstand.

He sighs and scrubs his face with his hands. Sometimes after the walk home, he can hold out for a while, sometimes even the whole night. But tonight, the feeling has only grown. He’s hot beneath his collar, his uniform is heavy and doesn’t breathe at all. So he slips off his shoes and, giving in, gets onto his bed, back against the headboard, pillows flat behind him.

The video pops up in his search bar as soon as he types in the first letter of the website. Before all this, he used to clear his search history every time, but now that seems stupid. What’s the point of clearing it and having to look up the video again? That’s too much trouble. This gets it done faster, and more than anything, he just wants this to be over.

It took him a long time to find the right video. Before this, when he wanted to get off, it was a lot simpler. Normally just his hand, but porn sometimes, usually straight, with a guy with a big dick. Something where the girl was quieter, and the guy was built like a baseball player or a runner, with the requisite shitty tattoos and cheesy music. Back then it was mechanical, and the videos weren’t a necessity. He could trust himself to think of something—that guy from college bending him over the bed, or Marlon Brando sweating in _A Streetcar Named Desire_.

But things have changed since then, and since he found the video, he can’t do this without it. He felt guilty for weeks the first time he clicked over to the gay section of the website. Couldn’t even bring himself to watch a video, just X’d out of the window as fast as he could. The next few times were experiments—facials, blowjobs, amateurs, twinks. Nothing felt right, nothing got him off the way he needed to get off.

It took a long time to gather the courage to click on one of the cop videos. He felt ashamed even as he did it the first time, drawn in by the uniform and the bulky guy in the orange jumpsuit. All the details were wrong, of course, he’s used to that from movies, but the badge the cop was wearing looked like it was made of plastic, and the lighting was too good for a real jail cell. But he watched the cop undo the guy’s jumpsuit and fuck him against the cinder block wall, and it was—something. Still not quite right, but closer than anything else.

The video is finished loading, and he’s accepted now that this is going to happen. He’s got his belt unbuckled and uniform shirt untucked, nearly-empty bottle of lube beside him. He squeezes a little into his palm and it’s colder than it should be. Still, he shoves his hand inside his boxers, finds himself half-stiff already, and gets to work.

After that first video, it became like a challenge to him, to find one that was perfect. Minimal corny dialogue, no fuzzy handcuffs, and—the hardest part—the cop bottoming. It’s always the other way around in these things, some kind of weird domination fantasy for the prisoner. That doesn’t hit him the right way; he can’t deal with the cop forcing the prisoner to choke on his cock, or pinning the prisoner down and fucking him over a table in the interrogation room.

He found this one in a fit of desperation, in the middle of the night after a long shift. It was pages and pages and pages deep in a search for cop videos, with a low rating. “Hung Prisoner Fucks Slutty Cop!” _Worth a shot_ , he figured, and clicked.

The beginning is unremarkable. They’re in what looks like some kind of holding room—maybe it’s supposed to be booking, he’s not sure, and he tries not to focus too much on the details, it is porn, after all. Still, Javert can’t help but like that the cop has mirrored shades clipped on his pocket. He’s brunette and fake-tanned, clean-shaven, with long legs. The uniform pants fit better than any uniform pants that actually exist, but the badge on his shirt glimmers like the real thing, and he doesn’t have on one of those stupid Halloween costume hats, or the fake plastic handcuffs. The cop isn’t really who he’s interested in, though.

Usually, in these things, the prisoner is some bear type, a burly, hairy guy with huge arms and a thick beard. Not in this video. He’s shorter, smaller, not much hair to speak of. He still wears a jumpsuit—at Huntsville, it was separate pieces, pants and shirt, in that same fluorescent orange—and the wrong kind of shoes, but the body is right.

He’s hard by the time the cop tells the guy to turn for the booking photo. Something about the angle puts a strain on his wrist, and all that fabric starts to chafe him. His legs are hot, especially in the thighs. He tells himself to take off the uniform, that this is easier without the uniform, but—but he knows it’s better with the uniform on, to shuck the pants down around his thighs when the cop in the video does. He has this down to a shameful science. So he shifts, pushes the laptop back against the pillow and gets to his knees on the bed, sits back on his calves. His belt hangs from the loops, buckle jingling against his leg as he works his wrist in slow strokes.

The prisoner turns around after the cop takes the photos. He knows the look on the prisoner’s face, he’s seen it before. It’s defiant, smug, and he’s wanted to wipe it off so many faces. The cop tells the prisoner to strip, they have to take more photos, and so the prisoner undoes the jumpsuit like it’s some kind of striptease. Porn logic. He starts slipping off the jumpsuit, and there are his shoulders, square and broad, and then his arms and torso. The tattoos are wrong, but they’re tattoos, thick and black and blurry, spotted across his chest and forearms. The skin on his neck is bare, no ink—that’s wrong, too.

His breathing gets heavier when the guy steps out of the jumpsuit. The guy’s skin is brown against the white-painted walls, and his cock is already hard. _Like anyone would be turned on by this_ , Javert thinks, but then again—he’s the one with his hand in his pants, so he really can’t judge. The cop takes more pictures. There’s an exaggerated flash and shutter sound as the cop zooms in on the guy’s cock, then makes him turn and bend over for a shot of his ass. This is part of what gets Javert—the way the prisoner bends, lets the cop believe he’s the one in control. His ass is tight, and the cop places a hand on the small of the guy’s back. The guy doesn’t flinch. Javert wonders—but then banishes that thought, because he knows where it’s headed, and focuses on the feel of his cock in his hand.

This used to be easier. Before the riots, back when he was at Huntsville and even after that, when he’d first started doing patrols—there was no thought to any of this. He was younger, and he knew what he liked, how to come hard and fast and not want more after. Now, this has to be drawn out, he has to savor it. He’s tried doing it faster, getting it over with, but that spoils it. It’s about the visual, he guesses, the fantasy of it—it takes time to get himself there, get all the objects in place, to make it finally worth it to have to clean up the come afterward.

Javert strokes harder now, tightens his grip around himself. With his free hand, he switches the video to fullscreen, turns up the volume, yanks his belt out of the loops and throws it to the floor. The way it clatters against the hardwood makes him jump—he can’t remember if he’s locked the door. He simultaneously wants and doesn’t want to be found like this. Maybe being seen this way would finally make him stop needing it. 

The cop smacks the prisoner’s ass and Javert comes down hard on himself. He was already sweating, but the noise the guy makes is hot, and warmth spreads from his stomach to his chest to his thighs. Javert anticipates the slap of palm to flesh, the way the contact ripples across the guy’s skin. He knows the noises are going to get louder, more needy, and he knows it’s only a matter of time before he’s making them himself, biting them back behind his fist.

Then, the cop sets the camera down and the prisoner stands up straight, turns around to face the cop. Javert mouths the words as the cop says them—“Time for the manual inspection.” It’s so fucking stupid, this is all _wrong_ , but—fuck, _fuck_ , nothing else works anymore. The prisoner gives the cop that smug look again and the cop orders him to bend over the table. And so the guy does. He leans on his forearms and puts his ass out for the cop, whose fingers are suddenly slick and shining under the fluorescent lights.

Javert starts to get close when the cop touches the prisoner’s back. He can’t finish here, not yet, because then he’s left with the desperation again and no way to try to satisfy it. So he slows down, uses just his thumb and his index finger, goes as lightly and as deliberately as he can. It makes him whimper—it would be so easy to make himself come right now, and it might even feel good for a moment. But there’s so much left of the video, and it’s better if he waits.

Almost gently, the cop slides his fingers into the prisoner’s ass. The prisoner nearly loses his balance, he thrusts against the metal table, but the cop steadies him, draws his fingers out before pushing them back in. The look on his face is focused, like this is all business, and Javert thinks that must be how he looks, because that’s how this feels: like a job, like the parts of a well-oiled machine falling into place. It’s hard to keep his own hips still, even though he’s hardly touching himself. The way the prisoner moans, the way his head drops and the way he bends— _that_ gets Javert, Jesus Christ, and so he’s shifting around again, shoving his pants down until they’re around his thighs.

The cop tells the prisoner to be quiet, but the prisoner isn’t quiet. He gets louder, moans from the back of his throat. Javert’s toes curl in his socks, and he can’t keep his hands off himself anymore. He knows how to walk this line just before he loses it. He speeds up, slows down, thrusts into his fist, brushes his thumb over the head of his cock. He used to be able to close his eyes, imagine he was fucking someone. But he’s never been good at that; it’s easier to let someone else do that work. He starts at the buttons of his uniform shirt—it’s too late now to take it off, but if he can just get it unbuttoned, the heat won’t be so unbearable, and maybe it won’t be so obvious what’s been going on when he takes it to the dry-cleaner.

Once the cop’s fingers are out of his ass, the prisoner turns back around, and he speaks in a tone Javert knows too well. He says, “Did I pass inspection, officer?” And Javert is sure then that he’s going to come, he’s going to come and he’s going to hate himself for spoiling this because it’s too early, _fuck_ , it’s too early and this isn’t the part where he comes. Not here, not yet. He lets go of his cock. Tries to catch his breath, figures that’s impossible. Undoes the rest of the buttons, remembers there’s lube and sweat and everything else on his fingers, and now it’s on his uniform shirt, and he has work tomorrow, _God_.

In the video, the cop is nodding, and then he says, “I know how you could shorten your sentence.” Javert realizes that he’s said it, too, as he’s grabbing for the bottle of lube, because he knows what’s coming next. The cop says, “Fuck me,” and the prisoner reaches out to unzip the cop’s fly before the cop stops him. The cop doesn’t even have a gun, they have guns in booking, and this isn’t even what booking looks like. The prisoner steps back and holds his cock in his hand while the cop takes off his belt. Jerks at himself, only half-interested, not even really invested in this cop he’s about to fuck. That seems right. Javert doesn’t know for sure, but that seems right.

He spills lube all over his fingers, empties the bottle between his palms. The cop drops his pants to his ankles, and there’s a tattoo on his ass, a little sunburst. Javert almost laughs at it, gets his cock in his hand again and works more slowly. Spreads his legs, bends just a bit, his thighs pale in the light, his ass sticking out. This is less degrading when there’s someone fucking you. But doing it to himself—it just looks pathetic. He knows it’s going to get worse before he comes.

The prisoner comes over and the cop doesn’t even look him in the eye. He folds in front of the guy, this short, square guy with wrong tattoos and a big dick. The cop starts out balanced on his elbows but he’s too tall, his limbs are too long, and all the prisoner does is touch him with the back of his hand to make him crumple. Then the cop is flat on the table, face against the metal, desperately grabbing at his cock and already panting.

The table is cold, probably, and Javert wants to feel it against his face, wants to feel all that cold chrome against his thighs and his cock and his arms. The prisoner spits into his palm and slicks that over his cock before smacking the cop’s ass. Javert wants that sting, that open hand. He’s moaning as the cop is, swears that if he bends just the right way, he can feel the slap. The cop says “fuck me” again and Javert is saying it under his breath, it’s caught in his throat and barely a whisper. He wants to be fucked. _Needs_ to be fucked. 

This is where Javert gives in. He used to grab for a pillow but he’s past that now, thinks he deserves whatever pain this inflicts on him. He bends and balances himself on a forearm and his knees. Keeps his eyes on the video, and with his free hand, reaches down past his cock to his ass. His back strains as he does it—he’s not as limber as he used to be, though he doubts this ever would have been comfortable. He slides two fingers in, slick, and swears into the sheets.

He’s never managed to get used to this. The first time, he came almost immediately, as soon as he crooked his finger. It’s different, doing it to yourself. He knows exactly where to push, how fast to go. Every time he’s gotten fucked, it’s been clumsy—good, but clumsy. Inefficient. This, he knows how to do the right way. But it still takes him by surprise every time, the way it turns his gut and sets his heart racing.

The prisoner fucks the cop, and Javert fucks himself in time. His cock rubs against the sheets, and he’s moaning with the cop, with the cold metal table screeching across the floor at every thrust. The prisoner makes small noises, keeps his hands on the cop’s hips and fucks him hard and deep. There’s no pretense of romance between them, and Javert likes that. It’s right. This is rough, and the cop is powerless under the prisoner’s hands. That’s right. That’s right. _Fuck_.

Then it starts to get tricky—he’s close now, he’s so fucking close, but if he comes too fast, it’s over, and all this buildup, all this ceremony, will be ruined. His back is arching, the bedframe creaking as he works his fingers in his ass, thighs shaking. The prisoner says, “Like this, officer?” and his voice is smug, like he knows it’s good, and Javert is speaking with the cop—“fuck yes, fuck yes,”—until he loses his balance on his arm and lets himself fall face-first into the mattress. And he’s grabbing at his cock as the cop is, he can’t even see the video now because he’s facedown in the sheets, gasping for air, but he knows what happens.

The prisoner reaches around and starts jerking the cop off, his hand wrapped around the cop’s hand, and Javert can’t replicate that. He fucks himself harder, knows he’s going to give soon, and strokes his cock, the tip already wet. He wonders if that’s how Valjean would do it, if Valjean’s hand would be tight around his, and _fuck, Valjean, fuck_ , that’s when he comes, right then, while the cop is moaning into the table and the prisoner is still inside him. Javert keeps his fingers moving, thinks of Valjean behind him, fucking him hard, holding him down easily. He says Valjean’s name, and there’s come on his knuckles and the sheets and on his goddamn uniform pants. He wants Valjean wringing him dry, Valjean fucking him even after he’s had too much, Valjean’s fingers pressing bruises into his hips.

Javert lets the video play while he catches his breath. The prisoner comes as he pulls out of the cop, and the come drips down the cop’s ass, onto his shoes and pants around his ankles. They’re both panting, and so is Javert, and the prisoner may as well be Valjean now, even though the face is wrong, and the tattoos are wrong—there’s no fucking tattoo on the prisoner’s neck, there’s supposed to be a tattoo there but there isn’t. Javert can’t bring himself to watch the end of the video this time, where that look reappears on the prisoner’s face. He’s seen Valjean look that way, a long time ago. Self-satisfied, proud. And the cop looks wasted, like he’s going to be walking bowlegged for days.

He is, for the briefest moment, almost relieved. Guilty and disgusted, but relieved. The video ends, the cheesy music fading out, suggestions for what to watch next popping up in its place. Javert reaches with a still-slick hand to shut the laptop. Part of him wants to shove it off the bed and hear it clatter to the floor, breaking into pieces. But he knows that tomorrow, the need will rise up in him, and he’ll be back here again, gasping into his sheets, trying not to think of Valjean, and failing.


End file.
